


Kitchen Talk

by gracca_amorosa



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: (that one's for Georgi), F/M, Mutual Pining, Unrequited Crush, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27779320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracca_amorosa/pseuds/gracca_amorosa
Summary: “and he's solid as a rock, calm as the winter itself, warm as a glow of a window in the night, and he seems so normal about it, he doesn't seem to blush or to express anything, and she would believe him if only he did not avert his eyes every time they looked at each other” - mycravatundone
Relationships: Georgi Girev & Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov & Georgi Girev, Vasily Borgov & Luchenko, Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 21
Kudos: 187





	Kitchen Talk

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to nibi-nix and mycravatundone on tumblr for helping me out with this, so hopefully the details are right and the yearning is right

The day after Moscow, Beth was invited into the home of Lev Luchenko. Everyone from the championship tournament was invited, but talking to him about it during the post-tournament reception (very official, very stuffy, a lot of shaking hands and being asked questions she only sort of cared to answer) still made it feel special to her. He called her Liza when he asked, and it was quiet, to the side of the main knot of people, and she had to work hard to keep her smile small, but he didn’t hesitate to grin widely at her excitement. She agreed immediately, making Mr. Booth, the State Department man, mad, but Luchekno insisted, and Mr. Booth relented eventually. 

The cold bit into Beth as she looked around for his flat, the directions he scribbled onto a cocktail napkin mostly clear, somewhat vague. Eventually she saw the Italian competitor, she had already forgotten his name, and waved at him as she jogged lightly to catch up. He preceded her up the stairs, and when the door opened for them she was grateful to be in the warmth.

Being led into Luchenko’s kitchen felt so familiar to her she might have been back in Ohio. She was given a seat at the table, already cluttered with bottles of vodka and wine, a teapot and several glasses, plates with bread and bowls of pickled things. Coats and suit jackets were hung by the door or else piled on a bed in a side room, as hers was; sleeves were rolled up and she heard deep laughter from somewhere behind her.

The kitchen was tiny compared to any home she’d been in except her own trailer, but it was worn and clean in a way that reminded her of her old kitchen’s small formica table and rusted folding chairs. She would hesitate to put three people into the cramped space but somehow they managed six, eight, sitting and leaning against counters, pulling mismatched chairs in from other rooms to perch in corners. They all leaned over into each other’s spaces, multiple conversations weaving in and out and nobody really caring. They were all just a little hushed, though, a little quieter than the people in the main room were. Her Russian was good, but not good enough to pick out all of the details. Still, she understood fragments of politics, of chess.

Beth was used to kitchen talk, though not as intense as all this. It was a very Midwestern compulsion, to go where the food was and the warmth was, to talk over cutting boards and ovens. It was something she did more with her birth mother than with Alma, sitting close to older women, wiser women with deeper hurts than she knew at the time, around their own scuffed tables in their own bruised trailers or peeling houses. Helping shell peas while these soft women talked about their husbands’ hard hands or hard hearts - her hands still sometimes felt the snap of the beans, felt her bare toes barely scrape the cold, peeling linoleum floor. It was an intimacy that she was inherently part of even though she was only eight or nine, like a well-worn secret.

When she went to the orphanage all of that stopped and she felt its absence deeply, profoundly. Nothing in the orphanage was secret except the drugs, all stories got out eventually and nobody was too soft for fear of breaking. With Alma, it was different again - everything was secret but there was no one to talk to, no one to tell. The one time she had really gone anywhere it was to that Apple Pi party where they were just rude to her for not understanding them, where they perched in the den like decoration. After that, they never invited her back and she never asked to go back. Then it was chess, and that boy from Russian class, his apartment dark and close but not the same at all.

She tucked in her elbows as others filed in, Georgi Girev sitting next to Luchenko, Laev talking to someone she didn’t know, wives and husbands mingling here in a space she had come to associate purely with broken women. Luchenko gestured at her with a bottle of vodka but she deferred, and instead he poured her tea. The whistle of the kettle on the stove was a constant backdrop to the murmur of conversation and the rattle of plates and glasses, and Luchenko reached over to the stove to mix hot water into her cup.

“Please, eat, drink. You’re the guest of honor, Liza.” He smiled at her and she found herself thankful for his presence. Georgi turned to her and slid over a pocket-sized chessboard, a well-worn one with little oddly shaped pegs instead of real pieces, and she had just made her first move as white when there was more commotion at the front door.

Borgov stepped in, unbuttoning his suit jacket and smiling at the Russian player Zaitsev as he stood by the open door. She felt her heartbeat in her mouth and could not help but stare, but then - his wife, his son. They came in right behind him, had not seen her see them, and he turned to kiss his wife and take their coats. When he turned back, though, Zaitsev was gesturing him towards the kitchen, and he saw.

Seeing Elizabeth Harmon there at Lev’s table shocked him almost physically. This was a safe space for all of them, and after the tournament of course she would be here, but he had not expected it, really. After her victory, after his defeat, after giving her his king and looking at her a little too long and understanding her a little too deeply it was overwhelming to see her here in this familiar setting. She was wearing black amongst all the white shirts. She looked away only when Georgi spoke her name the second time.

He licked his lips nervously and looked back to Zaitsev, who reached out to take the coats from him. The gesture was kind but left him nothing to hide behind. He nodded, turned back to his wife, glad that she was leaning down to talk to their son.

“I’m going to go speak with Lev,” he said, leaning down again to kiss her cheek. 

“I’ll join you,” she said with a smile, letting her son slip away and join a few other children in one corner of the living room.

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he would have trouble opening it again, and he nodded. He tried to push thoughts of Elizabeth Harmon (Liza, he said privately, reflectively, as Lev and Georgi had taken to calling her) out of his mind, he tried to focus again on their game. But that led him back to their hands held together too tightly, the press of her into his shirt front.

Borgov walked in and stood just behind her, just beside her. Glancing over between exchanges with Georgi she saw just a glimpse of him before turning - his hands, now holding a shot glass. With something like creeping dread she knew that now she would be able to recognize him just by his hands, the shape of them (the feel of them?). She looked back to Georgi, glad he was concentrating on the board, and finally Borgov nodded to Luchenko and took a seat across from her, and Beth felt herself get just a little dizzy.  _ The caffeine _ , she tried to convince herself, _ from the tea. I need to eat something that’s all.  _

“Can you pass the sushki, Georgi?” she asked, clasping her hands in her lap. Trying to look anywhere but  _ there _ , knowing she would have to eventually.

Georgi looked pleased that she had known the name, but as soon as he turned away from her she heard: “Miss Harmon.”

She swallowed, looked away from the bowl Georgi had presented her, up into Vasily Borgov’s face, his blue eyes, right across from hers. The same distance away as he might be over a chess board, but the change of scenery made it feel intimate, even with all the people around. 

“Mr. Borgov,” she said as steady as she could. She had beaten him, finally - she had been accepted by the Russians without question, without fuss, so why was her heart beating so hard?

People had noticed the short exchange, not fully breaking off their conversations but finding them with their eyes and ears, including Georgi - who Borgov nodded to, smiling, congratulating him now for how well he had done in some other competition a few months ago - and, infuriatingly (why this anger?), Borgov’s wife. Beth wasn’t sure why she suddenly hated being here in the middle of things, didn’t want to think about why looking at his wife made her want to cry.

When she saw Beth looking she stepped forward, offered her hand, and Borgov’s gaze returned to Beth’s face and made her neck grow hot. He did not blink as his wife said, “It’s lovely to finally meet you, Miss Harmon. My name is Olga Antonovna. I’ve watched you play, you know - you’re very good. A credit to chess.”

“Oh - thank you,” she replied with a polite smile, and Borgov looked away from her finally, faint grimace on his face. Olga turned away, put a hand on his shoulder, whispered in his ear. He looked up at her with a smile, and Beth didn’t know what to do, looked at Georgi just for something to look at, found the abandoned bowl of sushki, grabbed a handful.

She tried to sort out the feelings in her chest but had never been good at that, so the different, uninvited pains sat heavy behind her ribs. She had been thrown off by his appearance, and now he was here, talking to Luchenko in low tones, right across from her. Someone behind began smoking and she took it as a sign she could smoke too, grateful for something to do. She dug around in her little clutch for the battered carton, shook out a cigarette, was grateful that a hand with a lighter appeared behind her so she wouldn’t have to find her own - Laev, nodding to her, retreating again.

“Would you like to continue our game?” Georgi said at her elbow. She pressed a knuckle into her eye to rub out the smoke that made it water. 

“I don’t think I have that much focus right now, Georgi, but next time I promise we’ll play a dozen times.” 

“Then would you like tea?” he asked, and she knew he just wanted to be helpful, but she thought she might go crazy if she sat there much longer.

“I’ll get my own, thank you, Georgi,” she said, smiling at the boy, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, grateful his small infatuation with her was unencumbered by her failures as a person.

She poured herself a bit of the strong brew from the pot in the center of the table, and worked her way through the small crowd to the stove. The kettle had almost constantly been on since she arrived, someone or another always needing it, but she had to start it up, wait for it to whistle, another small curse. She looked at the faded blue tile backsplash, took a deep breath, willed herself to be calm.

She turned away from the stove top to wait, and Olga Antonovna was beside her. Not paying attention to her, speaking with another woman, but so close she could see the clasp of her necklace, the pins in her hair. She had to work very hard to tear her eyes away, saw someone else had taken her seat at the table and was now playing Georgi on his little folding pegboard, saw the back of Borgov’s head so close to her. She choked back the thought of reaching out, just to make sure he was a real person and not a machine, not a figment of her imagination - the kettle started its low whistle, and she spun herself around.

She put her teacup on the counter so she wouldn’t shake too badly and drop it.

“Excuse me, Miss Harmon,” from behind her. Borgov, fucking Borgov. She held her breath as she turned.

He was looking up at her, and she could see his every detail. He moved his gaze around her face, and she was frozen there, time was frozen maybe, and as much as she hated it she wanted to lean into him. The thought was sudden and unbidden, angering her more than scaring her.

He held out his cup. “Would you mind?” he asked. She couldn’t say no, she was in their territory now. As much as it may have felt like home, she could not be impolite as she might be otherwise, couldn’t give in to her impulse to be rude just for rudeness’ sake.

Wordlessly she reached for the cup, not wanting to accidentally burn his fingers if she couldn’t keep her hand steady. He did not move away, didn’t even blink as she took it and her fingers brushed his. He looked the same as always, and she thought she was going to have to die.

Vasily did not particularly like the volatile situation he had found himself in. He could see Elizabeth Harmon coming unravelled, felt himself going ragged too through sheer discovery of himself in such a short time. He had known he respected the young woman, had even known that she was beautiful - who could deny that? - but to realize he wanted to reach out and take her hand, touch her face, was almost too much for him. He tried to reel himself back in, regain power over himself. She was young, still, and on the rise, and he saw her leave after their adjournment with a young man around her same age - surely that was no coincidence? She was impulsive, and always a little frantic, and the way she was looking (not looking) at him was a sign of her nerves and nothing else. Besides, he thought, much later than he liked, he was old, and married, and a  _ father _ for God’s sake. But the impulsiveness, the wild nature, was part of what was so compelling, the fact that she could harness herself so well and beat him. The fact that she had lingered in his arms just a moment longer than necessary. 

He was grateful when she went to the stove, glad that there was a vacancy where she had been so he could concentrate on the lack rather than on her. He picked out some rye bread and swallowed his shot of vodka, tried focusing on anything but her, behind him, making the back of his neck prickle in that familiar way. As soon as he heard the kettle start to whistle though, he had a teacup, had his essence. He could not focus on the lack of her because that too was focusing on her. He tried to continue speaking casually to Lev as he turned in his seat. He could feel his pulse in his throat, wanted her to see him seeing her.

“Excuse me, Miss Harmon,” he said as he turned, looking up at her, hating the shock of feeling that ran down through him as he watched her fine-boned features for reaction. “Would you mind?”

She hesitated only a moment before reaching out to take his cup, and he resisted withdrawing, remembered over and over her hand in his hand. He had wondered briefly if she would oblige, glad that she did. Now the touch of her fingertips to his knuckles was heady, like strong wine, and as much as he could keep his face still, he could not stop the flush that rose and warmed his ears.

Beth put the cup down next to her own, clinking them together accidentally, but managing to steady them before anything spilled. She poured his water, snapped the burner off. Held the cup by the scalding outside so she could give him its handle. So he wouldn’t burn himself.

When she turned he was thankfully looking away. Speaking with Luchenko, barely looking over to take his cup back, but he hesitated just for a moment, gave her a small nod. She didn’t know where to go, now, didn’t have a seat and didn’t really want to talk to anyone. So she stood awkwardly by the stove for a minute, trying not to get so crowded that she accidentally touched Olga, trying not to look at the fine lines around Borgov’s eyes when he smiled at something Georgi said, upset by the fact that he wasn’t smiling at her like that - pushing that thought and all it might indicate out of her mind. 

What was she  _ thinking? _ She had Townes back in her hotel room, maybe not a romantic partner but the man she had been in love with for years now, though mostly secretly. She had Benny and Harry back home, either of which would drop anything to be with her if she asked. Hell, had Jolene if it came down to it - if she was going to act on whatever mess of impulsive feelings she had, it should be with Jolene if it was with anyone. 

But Jolene wasn’t here. Benny and Harry weren’t here, Townes wasn’t here. Vasily Borgov, a man she wanted to hate for so long but never quite could, was here, with his wife and his son. He seemed more substantial than Harry or Benny or Jolene, somehow. She leaned back into the counter, gripped the gently cracked edges of the countertop hard. She tried to convince herself that he saw her as nothing but  _ the American girl _ , an acquaintance, a small nuisance. She remembered all the times he had not looked away from her. Had looked up from his board or his family and found her without trying. She bit her lip, felt her face settle into a frown without meaning to.

From just outside the kitchen a guitar started up, and a few people joined in with a song she didn’t know. She pretended to listen, though, glancing back occasionally at Borgov. She was grateful when his wife and her friend drifted out into the main room to listen to the musician. 

Borgov had potential in him, she thought, to be either gentle or harsh, doting or dismissive. She had gleaned some of this knowledge from magazine articles or the few TV interviews she had managed to find, but it was seeing bits and pieces of him in their three games together that made him into a real man. A handsome man, maybe, though that made her heart beat too fast, a secret though, a forbidden thought.

More people filed into the main room, leaving just three in the kitchen, Luchenko and Borgov speaking softly into the smoky haze that now lingered above them, her standing still as she could. Her stomach rumbled, loudly, and she clapped her hand to her middle as Borgov looked back at her, raised an eyebrow, otherwise fully dispassionate. She felt a bile rise in her throat and Luchenko looked up at her too.

“Please sit back down, Liza, please eat - try everything,” he said, gesturing to her again-vacant chair.

“I couldn’t possibly, but thank you,” she said with a small laugh. She wanted to eat, desperately, but sitting down now that there were only the three of them in the room was threatening to something in her.

“I insist,” he said kindly, inclining his head and she gave up on being stoic, just smiled and nodded, pushing off from her perch and sliding back into her chair, looking at the dishes of mushrooms and fish laid about her. 

“You’re not afraid of the food, are you, Miss Harmon?” Borgov said lowly, and Luchenko laughed once, sharply.

“Liza isn’t afraid of anything, I don’t think,” he said.

Beth didn’t look up at him, pursed her lips and picked a slice of rye bread and a bit of herring. She ate them together in two bites, not realizing until the smell of the bread hit her how hungry she actually was, even after the handful of sushki. 

“I was quite fond of pickled eggs growing up. They were very popular in Ohio, and Kentucky too. The whole Midwest, maybe,” she said as casually as she could, looking up at the two of them as she reached for the bowl of mushrooms. 

Luchenko smiled. “I told you so, Vasya,” he said, creakily standing up. He patted Borgov’s shoulder. “You of all people should know she’s not someone to underestimate.” He wandered slowly off into the other room, picking up the words to the song as he went. 

With only the two of them there at the table, it felt more oppressive than it had when it was completely full. The conversation and faint strum of guitar were muffled somewhat in the kitchen, and he was not looking at her - would not? She hated to think. He stared out at the rest of the gathering, so she stared the opposite direction, taking in the well-worn cabinets and the gently falling snow out of the small window, and idly eating a little of everything around the table. 

She could leave. She thought about leaving him there alone at the table, but immediately rejected the idea. She would not be in Moscow much longer, only a day or so, and this was her last chance to see him - not just a picture on the cover of a magazine or a wordless, expressionless face across a chess board, but a real person sitting in front of her, real even in his current comfortable silence. She looked over at him and he was smiling faintly at the musician. Something like guilt, or sympathy, ran through her. The thought of Borgov sitting lonely at the table made her sad, even though she knew that it would only be temporary. As soon as the man was done singing his song others would wander in to join him, but right now he reminded her so much of herself, so often sitting alone on the periphery, that she didn’t move.

Vasily didn’t quite know why he was doing what he was doing, but he didn’t get up from the table. Partially, he enjoyed the brief almost-alone that he hadn’t had for maybe over a year, a thing that was only really possible at a gathering of one’s closest friends and impossible at large chess tournaments, especially for grand masters. Partially, he was staying because of her. And he knew it, and he hated the impulse, but he stayed sitting across from Elizabeth Harmon.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, saw her looking away. Saw the gentle flush of her cheek, the fine lines of her hands, hands he had been staring at for the better part of two days, or two years. He realized this would be the last time he would see her for a while, their last chance to speak without others around. He gave himself a moment more to look before addressing her.

“You play wonderfully, Miss Harmon,” he said out of their shared silence, and when she looked to him she found him looking at her already, leaned forward in his chair just enough to be in her space, arms crossed on the table in front of him like he was playing a game.

“You as well, Mr. Borgov,” she said, mirroring his movement, leaning forward. Staring.

He looked away, back toward the crowd, and she could see his eyes moving over the people in the other room. For a moment she was scared that was all this was going to be. She leaned back, sliding her hands back under the table, grasping at the table cloth just for something to do.

“I’m glad you decided to come to Moscow after all.” He looked back at her, smiled his little half-smile, and she grew warm when she noticed his dimples. “I was afraid I wasn’t going to get the chance to play you again. It made me - disappointed is not the word…”

“After Paris, I wouldn’t blame you for being disappointed.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper, making him lean in more to hear her over the music and laughter. He let himself get closer. She let herself look.

“I know you’ve led a troubled life, Elizabeth Harmon,” he said kindly. His use of her full name hit her hard in the chest. Instead of the cool expression she had learned to expect when he looked at her, his face was soft, genuinely concerned. “I was disappointed in Paris, it’s true, but I also know the pressure that one is under in these circumstances. When one has no family, and so much weight is placed on one’s shoulders.” 

They were both silent, then, and both knew he had said so much without saying much at all.  _ She’s like us, _ he had said so long ago in Mexico City, meaning more than she had known until now. She felt the lines of their lives match up in certain places like a rhythm only the two of them knew. 

A sudden clapping broke their concentration, the bond they had made in so few words, and people began clattering back into the kitchen. The kettle was on again, bowls of food and cups of water and vodka and tea were being passed around. Georgi came back to sit beside her, and Borgov’s wife came to stand at his side. Smoke once again drifted hazy in the room, and Beth and Borgov were left looking at one another silently across the table, in this well-loved room, alone together among the crowd.


End file.
